


Needs

by micehell



Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: Angst, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-26
Updated: 2005-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myron needs help.  Myron needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs

The kids were waving at them, smiling. Some of the men waved back, smiles breaking up the hard lines of their unlined faces, but their eyes were still alert. Goldman called to them to keep their eyes open, don’t become distracted. And the men obey.

One of the children, no more than six, was staring at them with hopeful eyes, his thin frame mute testimony to the harsh conditions following in the wake of the pesticide rain. The eyes were like a weight, a compulsion, and Goldman reached in his pack, throwing the non-Kosher, much-hated beans’n’franks into waiting hands.

It was tacit permission to his men to act in kind. And they obey. But one didn’t throw the C-rats. One stepped close, too close, and death and flesh rained, danger close.

Myron shakes his head, shakes the memory off, not wanting to see that scene repeat. Again. But his mind circles endlessly over that moment of foolishness, that moment of failure. If he’d held firm against those eyes, his men would have too. Held firm, not spilling across the sea of green, grass and uniform alike.

And he needs something to help him forget. Something to ease the pressure. He’s wound so tight, vibrating with the strain. Needs relief, if only for a little while.

So he thinks of flesh, soft and hard, and he holds his, cradled in his hand, his body cradled in the foxhole, cradled in the bush. But there’s no comfort and no response.

And a foxhole at night isn’t the best place for release, but he needs. He needs.

A movement to his left, and he freezes, but it’s just the sentry, and he’s back in himself, back in his mind. He sees Nikki, remembers the sex, a blessing in the hell of war, but his mind strays to blood, and men dying, and the end where he wasn’t worth the risk of pain. And his flesh still won’t respond.

And he tries to think of other lovers, but there were so few, and Alex comes unbidden. He tries to control the memory, force it to pleasant times, to see her whole. But the blood flows again, pooling on the ground, mixing with his grief, with the tears that should have come. And his own blood continues to stay far away from where he needs it.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve the relief, the release. Maybe this was God’s punishment. Thou shalt not spill thy seed upon the soil. Or upon his uniform, apparently.

He wants to growl in frustration, but he needs to be quiet. He needs.

He hits his fist into the ground, hoping for pain, a distraction. And it stings, which is almost as good as pleasure in his mood. He hits it again. And again. And… someone takes it. Someone lying near. He knows who it is, and he nods to himself. He shouldn’t allow this, but he does, because he needs. He needs.

And the hand rubs his knuckles, soothing. Then a thumb is tracing patterns on his palm, along the lines, into the divot at the base. Nerves flare to life, fingers stroking lightly over flesh, the intermittent touch of nail heightening sensation. And he’s hard, but he doesn’t know what to do.

Then the hand is released and he moans, even knowing he should be quiet, but the body moves closer, fingers on his mouth. To quiet him, and other things, fingers tracing his lips. And like his palm, they tingle in the wake of touch.

So many nerves in the hand, in the lips. He’s one giant nerve, and he’s hard, he’s on fire. His sensitized hand grasps his sensitized shaft, the pleasure of touch on his palm, of touch on his cock. It feels good, and the fingers on his lips are traveling his face, leaving trails of fire in their path, while his hand and cock burn in a familiar mix of pleasure and pain.

He’s so close, and the pre-ejaculate is easing things now, his hand gliding over smooth skin, over hard skin, growing harder, growing. And fingers trace along his eyelids, and he can’t see, everything’s whiting out in feeling, in pleasure, and he’s biting his lip, all those nerves lit, to keep back his moans.

To keep back his sobs; pleasure, anger, grief and love pushing him over another cliff, a longer fall than climax. And the fingers follow the tears that slipped past his guard, a trail of salt across his lips. A brief kiss to those fingers, to the palm, and it’s withdrawn.

Everything’s peaceful, quiet, normal, as the soldier on guard duty passes by to get his relief.

And Myron’s eyes are open, shut, open, shut, as fatigue and satiation battle with his need to see the one thing that always makes sense, the one thing he hasn’t failed, but rather won. All he can see in the dark night is the familiar bulky outline, a gleam of eye, the blue hidden by shadows. He reaches his hand out, past dirt and grass, to find warm flesh. Long capable fingers. Large knuckles lined with old scars, and new. Palm gnarled with calluses, life line an indentation from fingers to wrist.

He caresses that palm until his hand is grasped tight, a promise. And then he sleeps. And memory sleeps with him.

/story


End file.
